To Each his Own
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: Sheppard Mourns. Big Sunday Spoilers


To Each his Own

by

Stealth Dragon

Rating – K

Disclaimer – Don't own, so don't sue.

Synopsis – John mourns. Big spoilers for Sunday.

McKay had held off on getting thoroughly hammered until long after the funeral and two days before they were to all head back home on the Daedalus. Rodney, Dr. Cole, two of Carson's favorite nurses and Ronon to an extent because the man knew how to hold his liquor. That left John the designated driver, much to his relief. It was why no one questioned him when he toasted Carson with water (and what was wrong with using water? It kept people alive, kept them healthy. Carson would have appreciated that more). Rodney, however, two sheets to the wind as he was, still retained enough mental capacity to give John a disapproving look when he wouldn't accept a shot of something once back at the hotel.

Rodney probably would have argued it, pressed John for answers on why he wasn't doing the whole mourning thing, but drunkenness saved the day when the vodka shots decided to make a reappearance. John stuck around long enough to ensure Rodney made it to the toilet and then bed before vanishing to the safety of his own room.

John kicked off his shoes and dropped backward on his bed to stare up at the ceiling.

Since Mitch and Dex and Holland, John had come to realize – rather harshly – that drinking wasn't mourning. At least for him it wasn't. Too much like running away. Not the cowardly retreat with tail tucked between legs and hiding until the world passed you by.

No, drinking was short term, like being eight, mad at your parents because you couldn't stay up another hour, packing a too big suit case and getting as far as the front porch before turning back. At age ten, John had actually gotten as far as the end of the block when his mother pulled up in the car so he wouldn't have to walk back home. Then it was kind lectures, apologies, and milk and cookies.

All alcohol ever did for him was make him puke cookies or whatever else he might have eaten, and suffering the shame of a self-induced illness that brokered no pity from anyone. John considered himself pretty good at holding his drink but the hangovers were bad enough to stay fresh in his memory even days after the fact.

And that kind of misery was never worth it, because he still remembered the bad as fresh as yesterday with nausea and a splitting skull to make it all the more worse.

It was still early, the sky outside his window the solid blue-violet of late twilight. Fall leaves still clinging for dear life to silhouetted trees fluttered frantically in the pushy wind. Sheppard angled his head just enough to get his guitar case propped against the wall in his peripheral. He'd brought it for something to do because he could always use the practice. Plus the look on Rodney's face when the concierge had assumed them some band on tour had been priceless.

"Yeah, the Atlanticas. Ever heard of us? McKay here plays flute."

John rolled from his bed and retrieved the case. Dropping onto the edge he opened it up and pulled the guitar from its velvet-lined bed. A few twists of the knobs, a few plucks, and the strings were tuned. He had it down to a science, the right amount of twisting and plucking to produce the needed sound.

He started with a little _Wayward Son._ It was first song he'd played since digging the guitar out of storage to bring it back to Atlantis. After a brief battle with radiation sickness that left him with a crappy appetite but retaining his hair and the ability to have children, he'd recuperated in his room, thinking about Ford. He supposed a more passionate musician would have wrote some kind of song for the kid or something. John could write songs but anything of a mourning/remembering/honoring nature would probably come out sounding like some country western with cheesy lyrics documenting Ford's life and how depressing his absence was.

He doubted Ford would have appreciated it. The kid had been all about living life, fast and fun, and as far as John was concerned he was still doing just that hopped up on enzyme. He'd also had an appreciation for the classics_. Wayward Son _had just fit, no questions asked.

He'd later played a little _Carmen_ on arriving home since he'd heard Grodin had a thing for operas.

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Rodney was under the suspicion that John was repressing. Or at least John suspected Rodney was suspicious the way he kept giving a narrow-eyed glare if they so much as passed in the Daedalus halls.

McKay was never content with suspicion alone. He preferred proof.

"You're too damn calm," he said over lunch in the mess. "I sure as hell hope you aren't looking at it like the death of another soldier. The man put you back together more times than you can count on both hands. He deserves better, Colonel."

John stabbed the last of his salad onto his fork. "What do you want from me, McKay?"

Rodney shrugged. "I don't know. Something. You haven't even talked about him. You just... is it even bothering you that he's gone? Because you sure as hell don't act like it's bothering you."

John tensed at the accusation. It bothered him. The fact that it hadn't hit him yet but will bothered him. The prospect of walking into the Atlantis infirmary and not seeing Carson bothered him. It bothered him, he just had no intentions of getting drunk about it.

And crying... he'd never been one to cry. Only when his mother had died when he was twelve. Never since afterwards.

Knowing Rodney, he wouldn't back down. He mourned on the outside and John respected that, so fought back the urge to hold it against him out of self-defense. "I'm used to death. That's all."

Rodney's demeanor softened as much as his demeanor could. "That's not a good thing."

"No, it's not," John replied. "But it'll hit me eventually. It always does." Then he would want to drink and never let himself. Usually, he settled for punching the nearest punching bag, or wall.

Rodney didn't seem to buy it. However, he had the decency to drop the matter. John went straight to his quarters when he was finished eating, picked up his guitar, and strummed a little of Metallica's _Unforgiven. _He'd been strictly Johnny Cash until Cpl. Hudson had introduced him to the guitar work of some of Metallica's quieter songs during a long jumper ride. The kid had come back from that trip in a body-bag. It had taken John five days to learn _Unforgiven_.

Music was so much more encompassing than a temporary chemical stupor. John could stop thinking without forgetting and wake up with a clear head and a calm stomach. He couldn't be certain if it was mourning, but it felt all right, as though the people he was thinking about as he played would approve.

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It still hadn't hit John, even on arriving home and walking into the infirmary. He had told Teyla as much, promising to her as he had with Rodney that it would hit him. It always did.

On entering his quarters and changing into something more comfortable, he went for his guitar and a sheet of music on top of his dresser. Alicia Brennen - geologist, music lover, and kick-ass Irish fiddle player - had gotten wind of his guitar playing skills and begged him to be back up for a little concert she wanted to put on. It had actually been another's idea, someone in botany who really could play the flute. It never happened because John couldn't get the music down and Alicia had died ten days later in a cave-in.

John had been fortunate enough to hear her play during practice. He was going to learn that damn song even if his fingers went permanently numb.

He was forced to take a break when they really did go numb – temporarily of course. He went to grab an early dinner and there found McKay hunched quiet in a corner table, picking at his meal. John slid into the seat across from him. "Hey McKay."

"Has it hit you yet?"

John just stared at him. "No."

McKay's only reply was a noncommittal grunt. They ate there meal in silence. As much as John was getting sick of the guilt-trip McKay was pushing on him because he thought he was doing John a favor, Sheppard couldn't argue with him against it because McKay really did think he was doing him a favor. He honestly believed John was repressing, and maybe he was, just for now. Sheppard was more under the impression that it was a delayed reaction – a very long delayed reaction. It had been a while since someone he knew, really knew, considered a friend even, had died. He had to wonder if he had forgotten how to mourn.

Or maybe he had never known how.

When finished, John headed back to his room, retrieving his guitar, playing whatever popped into his head that he knew how to play.

It was hard to figure what Carson would go for. They'd never really seen eye to eye when it came to music. John liked both classic and modern rock, Carson the Oldies dating back to the fifties (his mother's influence he'd said) classical music (which they had some grudging agreements on) and The Lovin' Spoonful (which John could tolerate but never get into).

Sheppard moved out of Sting into U2 and _Sunday, Bloody Sunday_ and smiled. He recalled a visit to the infirmary and catching Carson tapping his foot to some U2 one of his tech's was playing in the background of the lab. He never did ask if Carson actually liked them (his bleeding hand had been kind of a distraction) but he was sure Carson would appreciate the irony.

John added a little extra fervor to his playing. He could almost see Carson, standing in front of a counter, head bent toward a microscope, foot tapping to the beat.

Whatever Carson's opinion of U2, the song just _felt_ right, and left no doubts that Beckett would be tapping his foot right here and right now if he could.

A knock on John's door had him slapping his hand on the strings killing the music. He thought and the door open to an awkward but trying not to show it Rodney standing on the other side. McKay raised his hand in a small wave. "Hey."

John nodded in return. "Hey."

Rodney hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I was, uh, passing by and... heard you playing."

Translated – he was dropping in either to badger John into letting it hit him or ask him to light something up in the lab, heard something, then probably pressed his ear to the door to hear what that something was. These doors weren't entirely soundproof but John would need sub-woofers for casual passer-bys to hear anything.

John just said, "Yeah?"

"Sounded like U2... I think. I could be wrong..."

"Bloody Sunday," he said.

Rodney bobbed his head. "Thought so. Good song." Translated – can I hear?

John thought on it a moment. Despite having caved to Alicia's request to play back-up, he'd never felt confident enough in his own skills to play in front of an audience. McKay especially, who could have been a concert pianist.

But he couldn't say no. It didn't feel right, plus McKay would probably hound him about it until he finally gave in. John waved him over. "Fine. But make fun of me and I'm kicking your ass."

Rodney settled in the desk chair. "Fair enough."

Sheppard resumed playing. Tentative had first, having to force himself to focus on the music rather than McKay's presence listening to what he might deem as crappy playing.

"Not bad," Rodney said.

It was enough to get John to relax and pick up the effort. "Think Carson would have liked it?" He stumbled over the cords. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Oh yeah, he liked U2."

John perked up. "Really?"

"Well I would think so seeing as how I found a couple of their songs on his ipod. Maybe it was a recently acquired taste, or he preferred it if people thought him a classical music-only fan. It's an odd paranoia among the scientific community, getting caught listening to other than classical. Like some kind of superstition. I, on the other hand, have no qualms about people knowing I enjoy the occasional Steve Miller band."

John nodded in approval. "Steve Miller, right on." Then smirked. "And Celine Dion?"

Rodney kept his face amazingly neutral. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

John chuckled, shaking his head. "And you know, you just, kind of, admitted to the medical community as being a division of science."

"A very grudging acceptance, that's all."

"Whatever. So what else did Carson like that he rather no one found out about?"

"Would you believe Led Zeppelin? And the Beetles. He had quite the variation of tastes."

John snorted. "People never cease to amaze." He played a little faster, with a little more fervor, as Rodney rattled off the list of songs discovered in Beckett's ipod. He recalled days seeing Carson with the nubs in his ears, bobbing his head, tapping his foot, whether doing research, checking monitors, eating, or standing at the edge of the pier whipping the line of his fishing rod into the water.

And then it finally hit John. He stopped playing, looking up at Rodney as though realizing for the first time, "I miss him."

Rodney gave him a solemn look. "I know."

They were silent for a moment and would have stayed that way except there were still a few more notes to play. No one likes an incomplete song. Carson would have probably agreed. The man had always completed what he'd started.

John continued playing.

The End


End file.
